


Anything

by redstringraven (sirimiri)



Series: Titans [1]
Category: DC Animated Universe, Teen Titans (Animated Series)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-19 09:11:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14870927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirimiri/pseuds/redstringraven
Summary: His parents had never known about Tamaran, they couldn't have. They could have never… --which means… which means it came completely and entirely from him. He’d done it. Out of… instinct or reflex or panic, he didn’t know, but he’d done it. Somehow he’d… known he could. 'Lucky guess' had been the only explanation he could conjure at the time. But how? How could he have? He hadn’t even known those things existed just three days ago--how was he suddenly just able to--...The realization seeps in. Slow and trickling, at first… then in a cold surge.Gar slid back until he settled on his haunches, breath thinning.Because… he hadn’t suddenly just been able to do this. He’d… been doing it this whole time. Hadn’t he? This whole. Time.





	Anything

**Author's Note:**

> for [Teen Titans FanFic Month](https://teentitansfanfictionmonth.tumblr.com/)! 
> 
> this fic takes place shortly after "Betrothed" and is part of the same canon as _[Guide to Getting Lost](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12753732)_. it isn't necessary to read one before or after the other, just know they are connected! thanks for clicking in!

Consciousness hit him. Hard.

Feeling. Smell. Taste. Sound. It all came roaring, clawing.

Silence.

Gar sucked in a breath as his eyes snapped open. His muscles were tight. His fingers burrowed into the sheet and plush mattress beneath him. He blinked, startled as he realized he wasn’t in his own bed or even his own room. The walls around him were a soft purple. Glowing, plastic stars of various shapes and sizes speckled the ceiling above him; some of them still illuminated in the warm morning light.

A door hissed, and he sat up with just enough time to see the metal slab slide shut. Now straightened, he realized where he was.

Kori’s bedroom. Why was he in _Kori’s_ bedroom? --And… why was Vic lying on the floor? And… Rachel was curled up on his left, her legs tucked against her stomach and her arms draped lazily over the round bed’s edge. She didn't look peaceful. Gar’s brows knitted together. They were all still in uniform. He was even wearing his shoes. What had…

... _oh_ …

The memories sank in, slow and cumbersome. Of Tamaran. Of everything they’d learned. Everything Blackfire... _Komand'r_... had done. Everything Kori had lost. The state she’d been in when they’d returned to the Tower. None of them had felt it right to leave her to sleep alone, so they’d shambled into her quarters as a group and passed out in a heap.

Had Kori even slept?

Gar bit his lip, wiggling himself to the end of the bed. No sooner had his shoes touched the floor did a sharp _psst!_ hiss from the rug on his right. He swallowed a yelp and turned to see Vic’s organic eye had opened, focused on him. Vic frowned, giving his head a small shake as he whispered, “let her be, Gar.”

“Dude, she probably feels more alone than ever,” Gar whispered back, gesturing at the door behind him. “We can’t just leave her to sulk around!”

Something in Vic’s gaze hardened, and he shook his head again. “Let. Her be. She’ll come to us when she’s ready. Until then, we stay low key. We help in different ways.”

“Like what?”

“How ‘bout you head downstairs. Start breakfast. I’ll be down in a bit.”

Gar let his ears flatten against the sides of his head. He flexed his fingers, opening and closing them against his palms as he stared into Vic’s unwavering gaze. Then, with a silent huff, he turned on his heel and marched to the door. It hissed open unceremoniously, and he walked to the elevator. It didn't feel right. It just didn't feel right. Somehow, he managed to resist the urge to shove his thumb against the roof corridor’s button, forcing it against the OPs Room floor, instead.

He moved into the OPs Room, giving the living area a passive glance as his feet carried him towards the kitchen. One of the cabinets was half open. There were a few cereal boxes and bowls scattered about, abandoned the morning they’d learned Kori was returning to her home planet. His nose twitched, picking up the sweet scent and wrinkling when it detected a sour tinge mixed with it. A closer look revealed two of the bowls were half-filled with milk. No doubt it’d spoiled in the time they’d been gone. He scooped up the dishes and promptly dumped them in the sink, dusting his hands as he wandered to the fridge.

The cool air hit his face, washing over him like smooth winter breath. Its effect was strangely calming; just feeling a change in atmosphere on his skin was a reminder that he had to be awake. That he had that exchange with Vic and everything in the past day or so had, indeed, really happened. The assurance was… puzzling, though. He wasn’t the one who’d just discovered he’d been orphaned. Who’d been betrayed--a _third time_ \--by his own sibling. There was something unsettling about it, too. A weird… mix of emotions in that gust of chilled air. He blinked, brows furrowed at himself as he reached in and absently tugged a case of cinnamon rolls to him, tucking it under one arm. He retrieved the orange juice and hooked it in his fingers, selecting a couple eggs into his hand and working them between his fingers so he could just barely hold three at a time.

Gar settled the eggs in the center of a towel to keep them from rolling off the counter. The orange juice was placed beside them, the cinnamon roll canister in front of it, and he slid sideways to reach out and preheat the oven. He eyed the counter, squinting at the coffee brewer. He didn’t drink coffee. Neither did Kori or Rachel. ...but Rachel would probably want tea.

He ducked into a squat and tugged the bottom cabinets open, blinking, so his pupils narrowed, then spread to fill the greens of his irises. The dim light in the cupboard brightened instantly, and a quick scan of its contents revealed the kettle carefully nuzzled on top of some skillets. He pulled it out and straightened up, blinking his eyes back to normal and moving to the sink to fill it with water.

His ear twitched and swiveled as it caught the faint scrape of the elevator doors. Gar turned his head, giving Vic a small nod as he approached the kitchen. “She still asleep?”

“Think things really took a toll on her,” Vic muttered. He rounded the counter, ducking low to retrieve a large pan and set it on the stove. “We were… all real, y’know. Riled up. Emotional. On th’trip back. She had to have felt all of it. Couldn’t get away from it, either.”

Gar chewed the inside of his cheek, shuffling to the stove as well and placing the kettle diagonal to the pan. He’d felt a lot of that emotion, too, but… his sixth sense was tuned into a lot of different things. It didn’t focus all of its attention on emotion like Rachel’s powers did. Whatever he’d felt coiling in his gut, she had to have felt tenfold. “You… think she’ll be okay?”

Vic nodded. “She’ll be fine. Like I said, I just think it took a lot outta her.” He tilted his head, gesturing to the kettle with one hand as the other plucked the eggs out of the towel. “The tea’ll help. Good call.”

Gar shrugged.

He rounded Vic, returning to the fridge. He gathered a couple more eggs now that both of his hands were free, and he carried them to the towel by the stove. Vic took and broke them one by one, letting them sizzle on the pan.

They were silent for a while. The egg whites began to pop and hiss. The kettle whined, a thin wisp of steam curling from its spout.

Gar fished around Rachel’s numerous herbs, lifting each jar, one by one, to his nose and giving them a sniff. She’d marked all of them with a label and expertly penned cursive, but he couldn’t read it. He had enough trouble reading ‘normal’ print. Cursive may as well be a foreign language in his eyes, so he’d learned to rely on his other senses when it came to tea brewing.

There’d been a mission a couple months back where he’d gotten overstimulated. He couldn’t remember much of it. Just that between the smells, the lights, the booming sounds, the water, he’d been vibrating so severely by the time they’d gotten back to the Tower that he probably could have passed his molecules through a wall as effortlessly as any speedster. Restless, anxious, a mess of chaotic thought, the concept of calming down seemed like an impossible feat. But Rachel had known what to do.

He hadn’t even noticed her approach. She’d appeared in front of him, silent as a wraith, and gently pushed a warm mug into his hands. The heat had leaked through his gloves. It'd been a small comfort, but a comfort all the same.

“Drink this,” she’d muttered. She may have even guided the mug to his mouth, one hand anchored on his shoulder so he couldn’t pace or shake or wriggle away. He couldn’t remember.

He just recalled the bitter taste, and the distinct slither of a heated drink pouring into his stomach. The earthy scents wisping across his upper lip and nose. All at once he was seated on the couch. His heartbeat slowed, his breath evened out. His hands had stopped shaking. Everything felt relaxed, maybe a little clearer. Not only did he sleep that night, but he'd slept well.

Any forms of teasing or gentle jabs towards her fondness of ‘leaf water’ ended after that. He’d even ask her to make an extra mug for him if he was feeling particularly jittery. Between observation and the drink’s familiar scent, he’d learned how to make the brew, himself. The taste had yet to grow on him in full, and he sometimes caught himself grimacing after that first sip, but he didn't care. It was always worth it to calm his senses and chase the jitters out of his system.

Gar’s nose twitched as he recognized one of the herbs, and he snorted, giving his head a sharp shake once the jar lowered away from his face. He rubbed the back of his palm on the underside of his nose as he wandered to the cabinets where the mugs were kept. Her tea ball would be in there, too.

“Sleep okay?”

Vic’s voice sounded cautious. Gar frowned as he pushed onto his toes, straining a bit as he tried to get his fingers around the handle of Rachel’s favorite mug. “Yeah. You?”

“I mean… uh. Sleep’s… kinda weird for a guy like me.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Yeah.” A pause. Gar’s ears flinched at the sound of the spatula scraping on the egg pan as Vic continued talking. “M’just glad Kori slept. ...she’s… probably exhausted. Emotionally and physically. ‘Top of all Blackfire’s psychotic plans, that fight was brutal.”

Vic’s trying to make conversation. Gar knows it's because he's being quiet. They all quickly learned that when he’s quiet, something isn’t right. And he _knows_ something… isn’t _right._ Something beyond what had happened to Kori. That’s why the fridge air had felt weird. Why he felt strange and tense. But what was it? What… _else_ had happened? … …

It rushes back to him.

Like a brick to the back of his head, just at the base of his skull, the impact is hard enough to make every muscle in his body jerk. His fingers yanked the mug forward, and it soared out of the cabinet. The porcelain exploded across the kitchen tile.

Vic yelped and sprang to one side as Gar whirled around. They both stared at the remnants of the mug for a long moment. Or, at least, Vic did. Gar was staring through it. He’d only turned towards the sound out of reflex. His mind and attention were elsewhere, ensnared by what he’d forgotten in the aftermath, the turmoil, the exhaustion.

He couldn’t breathe.

“What the heck?!” Vic exclaimed. He reached to the side and slid the pan and squealing kettle off the stove, then knelt to begin scraping the larger shards of the mug into one hand. “Jeez, Gar, if you couldn’t reach it and didn’t wanna turn into a monkey and climb, you coulda just asked.”

The words went in one ear and out the other. Gar watched, vacant, as Vic continued to gather the bits and pieces of the mug.

He should be terrified right now--and he was. Just not for the ‘right’ reason. Not because Rachel would be vexed by the destruction of her favorite mug.

It wasn’t until he realized Vic had stopped moving that he snapped back to the present. Vic was staring at him. Eyeing him. His cybernetic eye was flat and void of any hint of emotion, as it always was, but his organic eye was focused. Worried.

“Gar?” He must have repeated himself because his voice was suddenly low and gentle. “You… --you’re pale. Real pale. Like… minty.”

He wasn’t ‘there’ enough to tell if Vic had just made an attempt at a joke or if his vibrantly tinted skin actually had gotten that ghastly.

Gar swallowed. The action was solid enough for him to find his voice again. “--yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” Whether it was instinct or reflex, he managed to flash Vic a wide and toothy smile. “The crash just spooked me. Heh! --a-and it’s--... Rachel’s probably going to kill me. So. **That** sucks. Promise you'll play 'Mmm whatcha say' at my funeral.”

“She _won’t_ kill ya, Gar,” Vic said. He sighed, turning to the mess again. “She’ll be pissed, that’s for sure. But maybe we can get another one like it. Or one that’s even better. She ain't all that materialistic, anyway.”

“Y-yeah. ...yeah.”

His hands were sweating. His throat felt tight and sour and foul. He had to get away. If he stood here any longer, Vic would see right through his lie. Vic would know. He’d ask questions.

“I, uh,” Gar started. He side-stepped towards the kitchen exit, thumbing over his shoulder. “--I’m… gonna go swap into civvies. We’ve--my suit feels all gross after sweating and sleeping in it! I could probably use a shower, too.”

“Sure thing, man,” Vic said. He didn’t glance over his shoulder. “Breakfast will be ready by the time y’get back down. I'll get the cinna-rolls started.”

“Sweet.”

It took every single muscle and ounce of focus to keep himself from sprinting towards the elevator. Gar crushed a finger against the button for his room’s floor. As soon as the doors slid shut he leaned all his weight into his palms, head ducked between the elevator wall and his shoulders.

...he _had_ to be remembering wrong. He _had_ to be. Otherwise… otherwise, Vic would have asked him by now because he'd _seen_ it. They’d all be asking him--okay, maybe not Kori, but. Just… maybe it’d been a dream. Yeah. --Yeah, that… had to be it. Everything had been overwhelming. They’d all been exhausted and shocked and emotionally drained. They’d collapsed into Kori’s bed the moment they’d gotten back to the Tower. His subconscious or whatever was playing tricks on him. Brains were jerks like that. They made you remember things when you didn’t want to--even stupid, petty things, like that idiotic thing you said that made everyone laugh at you. You don’t even remember exactly what you said. Just how stupid you felt. How stupid you were. The paranoia you’d feel, wondering who else remembered it. If they still looked at you, thought about it and chuckled to themselves. Brains were _jerks_. And his was one of the worst of them. It _had_ to be a trick.

The doors opened, and he launched out of the elevator. A blind sprint down the hall until his vision tunneled onto his room, and he all but threw himself into the door before it had the chance to slide all the way open. His shoulder clipped the edge, but he didn't care. He dragged it shut, slamming his fist down on the lock button and raking both of his hands into his hair as he stumbled backward. He held his breath until the door beeped, indicating it was now locked.

Gar wasn’t sure how long he stood there, staring into the metal. He’d started breathing again somewhere in that time, his breath now heaving from his lungs in slow, thick waves. He clenched his jaw. He swallowed. His arms lowered, fingers dragging through his hair until his hands fell away and dropped to his sides. Then, slowly, and with a swelling sensation of dread in his stomach, he turned towards his mirror.

He approached it as though it were a wounded, frightened animal. His footsteps were light and silent though they felt weighed down by stones. Gar worked his bottom jaw, stopping about five feet from the reflective surface.

They hadn’t needed helmets on Tamaran. It’d been… similar air. It had to’ve been. Which meant… which _meant_ if… if this memory was, in fact, a _memory_ … he should be fine.

“You’ll be fine,” he said to the him in the mirror. It was an old mantra. One he told himself when he was scared. One they’d told him when he was scared. He’d believed them. He made him believe himself. So far, they’d all been right. "... you'll be fine."

Gar sucked in a deep breath, the kind taken before springing off a high-diving board, and closed his eyes. He hunched, sharp and deliberate, and let the image snap to clarity in his mind.

Gravity yanked his upper body down. He felt his clawed feet hit the carpet beneath him, felt his new weight shift and distribute itself evenly. His ears popped. Sounds became just slightly muted, and scents sharpened to the point the musty smell of his own floor filled his nose. He could have screamed right then because in that instant he knew.

It _wasn’t_ a trick his brain had been playing on him. It was _real_. He didn’t have to open his eyes--look at himself in the mirror--to acknowledge it. But he did anyway.

Staring back at him was a giant, vaguely reptilian looking creature. Its four tusks were massive, the thicker two coming to a tip just beneath his eyes. He could feel the raw strength and brutality of the form creeping through his veins, itching to be unleashed. The alien creature from Tamaran.

Gar morphed back, gasping as he came to balance on his hands and knees. He was shaking, now. The strength was gone, zapped from him and leaving his arms unnaturally weak beneath him. Confusion flooded his head. Too many questions, too many words, too many, _too many, too many_.

He could turn into animals. Duh. Obviously. Of _course_ he could.

That… that _was_ an animal. But it was an animal from another planet.

From another world.

His parents had never known about Tamaran, they _couldn't_ have. They could have never… --which means… which means it came completely and entirely from him. _He’d_ done it. Out of… instinct or reflex or panic, he didn’t know, but he’d _done it_. Somehow he’d… known he could. 'Lucky guess' had been the only explanation he could conjure at the time. But how? How could he have? He hadn’t even known those things existed just three days ago--how was he suddenly just able to--...

…

The realization seeps in. Slow and trickling, at first… then in a cold surge.

Gar slid back until he settled on his haunches, breath thinning.

Because… he _hadn’t_ suddenly just been able to do this. He’d… been doing it this whole time. Hadn’t he? This _whole_. Time.

Or, at least… from the first time he turned into a dinosaur. He didn’t know what dinosaurs looked like. Not _real_ dinosaurs--not the ones that had walked and lived on this planet millions of years ago. He only knew what they looked like in illustrations, picture books, museum re-imaginings and movies.

The forms he took on. They were only as accurate to truth as their skeletons. Their muscles, skin, feathers, patterns, sounds, and mannerisms… that had all changed as science had throughout the years. As more things were learned and discovered, his own designs of each species had evolved with them.

He’d been making it up this whole. Time.

Sure, he’d had references and literal bare bones to go off of… but the thickness of the skin, the extra bells and whistles, each and every distinct roar and screech. That all came from _him_. And no one questioned it because they were so used to seeing the T-Rex in Jurassic Park--and they weren’t dinosaur buffs, so they just assumed it was the real deal--and he was always green so it wasn’t like they’d notice changes in color or shading or…

Gar inhaled so sharply that the breath raked down his throat. He’d forgotten to keep breathing until his lungs forced it into him. He thought he was going to throw up. He had to be wrong. --Of _course_ he was wrong, he was an idiot, he wasn't like his parents, how _could_ he be right about this? He had to prove it to himself. Prove that he was overthinking it and jumping to conclusions and panicking over nothing.

He scrambled to his feet and raced to his closet, tearing the door open and dropping to his knees. He dug. Frantic. Where had he put it? Or thrown it? It had to be in here somewhere. He’d spotted it in passing--it’d been on display in a bookstore window at a mall. All it took was a wide-eyed, beeline to the glass, verbally expressed curiosity, and Vic had ducked into the store and purchased it before he could be stopped.

His hands found the smooth cover, and he pulled the book from between a thick hoodie and a pair of shoes he didn’t remember owning. He dusted the cover off despite it not needing the cleaning.

 _Animals: Real and Imagined_. Terryl Whitlatch.

He’d been drawn to it by the illustrations. They were so sleek and inventive. Colorful. As usual, the reading bits of the book had been mostly ignored, and he’d basked in the bone and muscle studies--the exact ways the artist had pieced existing animals into something new and unreal but entirely believable and functional and alive.

Something new and unreal.

Could… he _make_ it real?

Gar swallowed, his throat dry and tight. His legs shook a little as he pushed to stand. He moved to the lower bunk of his bed, fumbling the book open and thumbing through the pages. They stop barely twenty flips in.

There are two imagined animals there. One labeled ‘Goram.’ One labeled ‘Wildegelada.’ The first looks like a fantastical blend of a gorilla and a ram. The second is more difficult to identify, though ‘Wilde’ makes him think wildebeest. He can see it in the horns, the colors, the slope of its back, now that he’d forced his mind to slow down. Biting his lower lip, he settles the book onto the lower bunk, working the sheets around the pages so they wouldn’t fall closed again. Once he was sure it’d stay open, he lifted his hands, swallowed, and let out a slow, thick breath.

“O-okay… okay,” he muttered, hovering a finger over the illustration of the goram. The torso and ‘front legs’ were definitely gorilla dominant. The back legs--the hips--were goat-like but thick with mass and muscle. Though the drawing had the creature facing 'the camera,’ he could see a glimpse of a large hunch on the back of the neck. That had to be the counterbalance for those massive, twisting horns.

It… seemed too simple, piecing the animal together. And that terrified him.

He took a few shaken steps back. He shook out his hands, held them up and flexed his fingers. He’d turned into gorillas and rams more times than he could care to count. He just had to meld them the right way so he didn't hurt himself.

...in theory.

Gar inhaled. Closed his eyes. He pictured the illustration in his head just as he had the Tamaran creature. Clawed ‘hands’, powerful forearms, cloven hooves on the back feet. He ducked, then straightened as something prickling and static buzzed through his skin. He felt his spine break, reform, arch in less than a second's time. Felt his fingers and toes meld, the latter hardening as his heels extended. A new weight forced him forward, and gravity gripped his skull, nearly dragging him face-first to the ground. But the muscles in his shoulders--the back of his neck--formed and pulled against it. Once more, the scents in the room heightened. His ears popped once and he could almost feel the white noise in the air. He exhaled, dread washing over him in a cold, bristling wave.

He turned his head, though the movement was stiff, and opened his eyes to look into the mirror.

Staring back at him was a massive, burly creature. Shaggy fur, curved horns. Almost the spitting image of the illustration in the book.

He withdrew from the form so sharply that the force of it threw him backward, stumbling until his spine hit the wall. He let himself slide down it until he was sitting. And he sat, paralyzed, as his brain desperately tried to process what he'd seen.

He’d… just… turned into something… that _didn’t exist_.

He didn’t realize what he was doing until his gloves were already off, and he stared down at his now bare and trembling hands. For a long moment, his mind is utterly blank. A white, slick slate.

Gar exhaled in a slow gust. He flexed his hands. He forced his mind to dig through long-repressed memories. Memories from before the Doom Patrol and before Nicholas Galtry and before Eddie and Bates and the waterfall. Back to those quiet, lonely nights in the research compound. Sneaking out of his room, creeping down the hall. Tucking himself just behind that one, specific corner, where he knew he could overhear the muted conversation while veiled in dim shadows.

It’d been obvious something was wrong. For some reason, adults thought kids were stupid. Or, maybe that was just something he experienced because he _was_ … stupid.

Try as they might, his parents hadn’t been able to mask their confusion and horror each and every time he took on the form of a new animal. He knew Samuel and his dad were talking about him off to the side while his mother tried to distract him with toys or a picture book. And so he’d started eavesdropping. He’d started trying to understand what he was doing _wrong_. What he was doing that scared them.

The words hadn’t made sense to him then, and he couldn’t remember all of them, now. They were buried under trauma of all colors. He could recall discussions of DNA--a combination of letters he'd finally come to recognize--and multiple mentions of the virus thriving beneath his skin.

Green fever. Sakutia.

When Vic discovered he was still infected, co-existing with it, he’d asked how it was possible. There were less than seven documented cases of the virus in history, and none of them had survived. The horrible truth was that Gar didn’t know. Reflecting on it, he wasn’t even sure his parents entirely knew. They hadn’t expected him to become permanently green… and they definitely hadn’t expected the more… dramatic… side-effect. It’d been lucky, hadn’t it? Sheer, maybe twisted luck that the virus mutated just enough to live with him. To work with him. A symbiotic relationship that had been dragged by the skin of its teeth into the world.

This was the first time in a long, long time that he’d given the virus this much thought. He’d… assumed that the whole DNA thing was directly connected to animals. Earth animals. Not to him. But this. This was proof enough that the animal kingdom--on this planet, on ANY planet--had nothing to do with it.

It was him. It was _all_ him.

There weren’t limits… were there? He’d inflicted those on himself, under the belief that he could only mimic reality. But in truth, he could do more. So much more.

He could turn into… **_anything_**.

It’s a huge word. Overwhelming in every sense, dark and cold as the sea. For a moment, it closes in on him, and Gar feels himself shrinking in reflex, curling tighter and tighter against the wall and wrapping his arms around his chest until he hugs them secure against his ribs. Something gurgles and bubbles in his throat. He can’t tell if it’s vomit or a scream or something just as inhuman as he is.

All he can think about are the stares. He'd gotten used to the average kind of stare. The pointing and the whispering and the not-so-subtle angling of phones to get a picture of the kid with green skin. No. It would be the way they would stare.

The way everyone in the past had… _looked_ at him.

The horror on his parents’ faces after he’d come out of the mongoose’s form; how his mother had scrambled away from him and his father helped her to her feet, pulling her behind him. The shock on Eddie’s face when he’d attempted grabbing Gar’s arm, and he’d morphed into a snake, falling away and attempting to escape. The way Ekua had gasped and dropped her plate when Aiysha brought him into their home, and she’d seen his skin for the first time. The disgust twisted in Nicholas’ features when he’d caught him in the form of a monkey, attempting to grab a cereal box from the top shelf in the pantry. How Rita and Dayton and Larry and Cliff had stared at him the first time he’d stung someone with a venomous quill and accidentally sent them into shock.

...what if _they_ looked at him like that?

What if… they… stared at him? Wide-eyed. Pale. Confused and scared and unsure of what it all meant. Of what they had to do.

No.

 _No_ , he couldn’t--

…

… he _couldn’t_ … _bear_ the idea of them. His _friends_. Looking at him like **that**. Of them being mad _at_ him. Scared _of_ him.

Whatever was in his throat swelled. He choked on it. Clasped his hands over his mouth and closed his eyes, furrowing his brows until he forced himself to swallow. The effort was sickeningly familiar and tasted as sour as bile, drying and tightening and burning as it traveled down his neck. His stomach--where his guts should be--felt hollow.

Then it was gone. Closed away. Buried. With everything else.

Gar exhaled as his hands fell from his mouth and dropped to the carpet on either side of him. His head tilted back and hit the wall as his eyes found the ceiling.

He’d been up here too long. Vic would be wondering what was taking him. Rachel might be awake by now. And Kori didn’t need him like this. She was suffering her own wounds. Not scars like his. _Wounds_ … fresh, open and trying desperately to scab. He had to be down there for her. Smiling. Performing silly tricks, laying down ridiculous puns that were so, so miserably bad you couldn’t help but laugh at them, even if it was out of pity. The only kind of pity he could tolerate.

He shoved his hands into the wall and wobbled to his feet. The exhaustion from that morning was back, and his own weakness almost surprised him.

Gar retrieved a simple shirt and a pair of worn-in pants. He meandered to the bathroom, changed, and stuck his head under the sink faucet. Once his hair was wet enough, he straightened up and scratched his fingers rapidly through it, mussing it until it looked like he’d ran a sloppy towel through it and called it ‘good enough.’ Wasn’t the most convincing display but… with everything that’d happened, with how tired and distracted everyone would be… maybe they wouldn’t question it. They’d decide his mind was too occupied to bother with a proper drying off and cast any puddles or wet spots he left a listless glance.

He jogged to the elevator and slid inside. The ride down was spent bracing himself, muttering an array of greetings under his breath and trying to find the one that sounded the most natural. They all played like he was trying too hard. But… wasn’t that… normally true? He didn’t know. He felt like he didn’t know a lot of things anymore. He wondered if his parents had known. If they’d always known that the existing animal kingdom was only the tip of a large and deadly iceberg.

The elevator doors slid open, and Gar inhaled as he bounded through them. Looked like his timing couldn’t have been better. Vic was in the middle of carrying several large plates--all stacked masterfully across his arms and palms--to the kitchen table. Rachel sat, so the back of her head was to him, but he could tell she was holding a mug between her hands. Kori sat across from her. She looked up as he approached and, despite all the pain and agony she had to be carrying, she smiled at him. It broke his heart.

“Mornin’, dudes!” He chirped, finding a rare relief in just how squeaky his voice sounded. The pitch helped mask the strain.

He slid the remaining distance to the booth and let himself drop into the space beside Rachel. She grunted, glared at him, but scooted enough to the side so he could actually fit. Kori nodded at him. She didn’t speak. He knew why. He knew what it was like to sit in silence, knowing that if you so much as lifted your voice you’d lose any and all control if it. Everything would be laid bare.

“Right on time, B,” Vic said, smirking a little as he nudged one of the plates onto the table. Rachel scoffed, lifting her mug to her lips and muttering against the rim,

“You’re soaking wet.”

Gar blinked, feigning surprise. “Huh? …--oh! … Oh, yeah. Heh! Guess I am.” He grinned sheepishly, scratching the side of his jaw. One ear flicked as he spoke, purposely letting a single drop of water splash against her cheek. “Sorry. Iiiiif it bugs ya _that_ much, I could turn into a dog and--”

“-- **no**.” Again, she glared at him. Sharper this time. He shrank away, more of a routine than a genuine display of fear. Rachel held his gaze a moment longer while Vic settled the last of the plates on the table. Then her frown softened, and she looked down to take in their breakfast. “...thanks. For the tea.”

“Yeah! No problem.”

Vic returned to the table with the jug of orange juice and a few glasses. Once the meal was set entirely, he slid into the spot beside Kori. She smiled weakly but kept her gaze down, tugging a cinnamon roll or three onto her plate. Every few seconds she’d sniff. Gar wondered if Tamarans’ eyes got as puffy and red as human eyes did when they cried. Curiosity urged him to look, but he didn’t want to stare at her. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

“So,” Vic started, poking at a large glob of egg. “I was thinkin’ maybe we could… watch some movies this afternoon. Maybe go out. Get some sun. Supposed to be a nice day.”

“Agreed,” Rachel said. She nodded, cutting a triangle out of her pancakes. “The beach should be quiet. With school and all.” Her gaze slanted in Kori’s direction. “We could meditate.”

“--and look for crabs,” Gar added, straightening, grinning. “Chase… sandpipers! Dig around for shells and sand dollars--and other things!”

He probably shouldn’t have said something. Maybe his voice had pushed it a little too far--Vic and Rachel had had the situation under control and he might've just driven it away. He didn’t need to look at either of them to know they were thinking and feeling the same thing. But Kori’s shaky smile twitched at the corners. She swallowed and sniffed again, finally lifting her eyes to meet his. He couldn’t think of a time she’d looked so tired and empty and alone. ...and grateful.

“That… sounds wonderful,” she said. Her voice was scratchy but sincere. She looked at each of them, nodding with every glance. “Thank you. ...th-thank…”

Her expression constricted. Vic had an arm around her before the tears began to fall, and she curled into his side, burying her face in her hands with a meek whine. Gar and Rachel quickly looked away, staring in opposite directions in a pathetic attempt to provide privacy, as Vic began murmuring words of comfort, assurance, and familial love. He always seemed to know what to say.

* * *

It was still peaceful when they made it to the beach later that afternoon.

Rachel and Kori found a spot coated in silky smooth sand. They set up some towels and an umbrella, both floating a few feet off the ground as they slipped into a meditative state. Vic stayed close by, occupying himself with some new gadget enhancement to fix. Just far enough away so his presence wouldn’t be intrusive, but close enough so it would be felt.

Gar took to wandering up and down the coast, pausing here and there to squat and dig through patches of shell speckled sand with his fingers. Sandpipers skittered away in a tiny herd as he walked, but they never bothered flying. He wasn’t threatening enough to warrant that kind of energy use, apparently. Good. He didn’t want them to waste it on him.

By the time he began to head back, he’d managed to find two sharks’ teeth and three whole sand dollars. He’d had a pearly looking shell at one point but wound up dropping it and losing it to the waves when a particularly snarky crab pinched the back of his heel. Kori wasn’t picky. He just hoped that, maybe, his findings would bring a little bit of light back to her features.

As he walked down the beach, the familiar shapes of his friends coming clearly into view, he felt something in his chest wither. He knew the focus was on Kori, where it needed to be. On doing whatever they could to make the next several weeks easier on her. But he couldn't help but notice Vic hadn't looked at him any differently. Hadn't acted like there was something under the surface they needed to talk about. And he began to wonder if Vic even remembered what had happened. What he’d… _done_.

Gar worked his jaw.

He could bring it up. Or... he could wait it out. See if Vic _did_ remember. See if the revelation would remain tucked away, slowly but steadily forgotten due to low prioritization and other matters demanding attention.

… it was better if that was the case. He’d gone most of his life without any help or insight into his powers or the virus lurking in his cells. He’d had to learn it all himself. Every shape, every advantage, and disadvantage, how to fly and swim and climb things. This wasn’t any different. He just had to be careful about it. Had to be sneaky and cunning. And, despite all 'evidence' to the contrary, those were two things he knew how to do very, very well.

He wouldn’t utilize this knowledge. Not until it was absolutely necessary. Not until there were no other options.

And he wouldn’t let it come to that.


End file.
